Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
“I do not know what to do, Clara,” Mason said. “I cannot force her to stand in front of Mr. Vance.”
He picked up his keys, the metal clinking in the quiet room.
“I need to go for a walk,” Mason said.
“It is dark, Mason,” I said.
“I just need some air,” he said, turning toward the door.
Mason shut the apartment door, leaving me alone with the old childhood photograph.
Mason came back from his walk after midnight, his shoes damp from the grass, but we did not speak until the sun came up over the neighbor’s garage. The light was a pale yellow, streaking across the linoleum floor of our small kitchen. We drove to Evelyn’s house at eight in the morning without eating breakfast. The driveway on Elm Street was clean, the concrete swept of autumn leaves, and the smell of toasted bread met us at the side door.
Evelyn was already at her kitchen island, sorting silver-rimmed dinner plates into stacks of ten. She had her hair pulled back into a tight gold clip, and she did not look up when the screen door rattled against the frame. A cup of cold English breakfast tea sat untouched near her elbow.
